


Words of Foment

by HolyPlasmaBall



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Mairon POV, Mairon is young and it shows, Unreliable Narrator, Utumno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyPlasmaBall/pseuds/HolyPlasmaBall
Summary: Turns out Melkor is a liar. Mairon feels betrayed. (set soon after the lamps are smashed)
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor & Sauron | Mairon
Kudos: 20





	Words of Foment

Notorious were the works Lord Melkor wrought with his honeyed tongue, the way he deftly changed the hearts of those who hearkened to him, and truly Mairon had been a fool to think himself exempt. He had been a fool to believe in the words of the Master of Lies, of him who said whatever he would to achieve the hidden purpose of his heart.

Their cause had never been that of freedom, nor fighting to right the injustice done upon them. There had never been a plan for life after, and now they were in free-fall, their forces splintering away, each on their own trajectory toward some distant corner of the continent. And whatever their chiefs would lord over, the newly crowned King of Arda granted them, for he had only sought to take what he may from his brother, and cared naught for the fate of the world with which he had enthroned himself.

It was this grope of reality which felled Mairon to the floor keening and clutching himself, as if he could shield himself from a truth that lay exposed within his own mind, lurid and splayed open.

The beautiful words of uprising they had taken to their hearts and cried in battle, the words Mairon would have died for, were born of nothing more than ill will and jaundiced eye. All along the true purpose of their cause had been a robbery.

There was nothing in this forsaken existence worth his while. There was nothing to align himself with, nothing worshipful nor exemplary, for the Valar were all of them flawed. Craven they were and ignorant, and naught could Mairon do now, but mourn.

Even so in the lays of his ëala a familiar defiance flared. It spurned and snarled and soon his despondence was contested.

So what of it? Would he roll on the floors and pity himself, or would he see to the matter and work to resolve it?

It was with this swell of ire that his predicament became unriddled. Of course he would find his path unpaved. In all of Arda there was not a single sword nor shovel found fully formed and ready for use. They had all of them been made by the hand of a smith.

Mairon was not just a smith. He was _the_ smith. The Master of the Forges of Utumno was he, and among all the maiar his skill was unrivalled. At this moment their way was lost in the mire, but with enough raw materials, anything could be achieved.

The dominion of the Dark Vala was that of arising might. His was the tension of the earth before it quaked, the swell of the ocean before it rushed the shore, and the mounting stormfront rolling over the hills; roaring things, locked, by their nature, on a perpetual collision course.

Such were the elements Mairon had at hand, and to his own name he swore, he would yet forge the Vala to his will and see the world made hale.


End file.
